EX    LIBRIS 

THE    UNIVERSITY 

OF    CALIFORNIA 


FROM  THE  FUND 
ESTABLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 
WILLIAM  H.  CROCKER 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1882 

SHEFFIELD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 

YALE  UNIVERSITY 


J 

I  V 


SEA   MOODS 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

ENGLISH  LYRICAL  POETRY,  (Second  printing) 
LYRA  YALENSIS,  ( Out  of  print) 


IN    PREPARATION 

SONGS  FROM  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA 
THE  ENGLISH  POETICAL  MISCELLANY 


SEA    MOODS 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY 
EDWARD    BLISS    REED 


NEW  HAVEN:    YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON:    HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 

MDCCCCXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


First  published,  October,  1917 


B     .      ^^  of  these  Verses  which  have  appeared  in  the  Forge,  the 

•  '•  *.»•  <fot-mn,\t}\Q\In$ej>eindent  and  the  Yale  Review,  are  reprinted  with 
tne  peVrnis*s!o*n  of  trie  editors  of  these  periodicals. 


*^j? 
$ 


To  M.  B.   R. 


646573 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Three  Friends  i 

Stars  .....          3 

The  Wife 4 

Homesick     .....  8 

Frenchman's  Bay    .  .  .  .10 

Fragrance     .  .  .  .  .12 

Wishes          .....         14 

Fog     .  .  .  .  .  .16 

The  Heritage         .  .  .  .18 

Sea  Dreams  .  .  .  .20 

The  Storm    .  .  .  .  .21 

Romance       .....        24 

Recompense  .  .  .  .26 

Despair         .....        28 

Adventure     .....        29 

Flowers         .....        32 

The  Dawn    .....        36 

Prayer  .  .  .  .  -38 

Poplars         .....        40 

A  Portrait     .....        42 

The  Silence  .  .  .  .43 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
To  Memory  .  .  .  .44 

War 46 

To  an  Oxford  Friend       ...        48 
Paul    ......        50 

The  Bird 53 

Cavalier  Song         .  .  .  55 

A  Memory   .....        56 

Fame  .....        57 

A  Picture      .  .  .  .  .58 

The  Lecture  .  .  .  -59 

The  Wood  Road  .          .          .          .61 

Rain    ......        63 

September     .  .  .  .  .65 


Vlll 


SEA   MOODS 


THREE  FRIENDS 


Fate  and  hard  foes  are  prevailing? 

Friends  leave  you  stricken?    The  three, 
When  was  their  strength  ever  failing, 

The  cliff,  and  the  wind,  and  the  sea ! 

Steep  climbs  the  path — never  shun  it — 
Up  where  the  hidden  larks  sing; 

There  is  rest  on  the  cliff  when  you've  won  it, 
In  the  grass  that  is  fragrant  with  ling. 

No  cry  from  the  gulls,  dipping,  calling; 

No  voice  from  the  boats  far  below; 
No  sound  from  the  waves,  leaping,  falling, 

To  edge  the  sand  crescent  with  snow. 

Here  stilled  is  the  scourging  emotion, 
And  hushed  is  the  Memory's  sigh 

In  the  limitless  peace  of  the  ocean, 
In  the  moors  rolling  up  to  the  sky. 

Comes  the  wind;  with  a  shout  he  is  chasing 
The  crested  waves — faster  he  flies. 

The  fishing  fleet  homeward  is  racing, 
Cloud  galleons  speed  down  the  skies. 


THREE  FRIENDS 

Sheet  the  cliff;  but  your  dauntless  desiring 
Through  the  high  gates  of  Heaven  shall 
climb. 

Your  spirit,  keen,  quenchless,  untiring, 

Shall  pass  the  gray  mere-stones  of  Time. 

Strong  the  wind;  now  the  far  sails  are  filling. 

Outstripping  each  bark  shall  you  go 
Through  fathomless  seas  where  the  thrilling 

Swift  winds  of  the  spirit  shall  blow. 

The  baffled  waves,  ceaselessly  ranging, 
Must  find  at  the  cliff  their  far  goal; 

More  resistless,  onrushing,  unchanging, 
Sweep  the  measureless  tides  of  the  soul. 

Man,  are  strong  foes  pressing  near  you? 

Seek  out  your  friends — they  are  three. 
Are  they  not  waiting  to  cheer  you, 

The  cliff,  and  the  wind,  and  the  sea ! 


STARS 

Across  the  harbor,  up  the  mountain's  base 
And  down  the  curving  shore,  the  far  lights 
burn. 

By  every  gleam  the  hidden  road  I  trace 
Through  bend  and  turn. 

Due  westward  where  the  ridges  dip  and  rise 
Are  scattered  farms,  each  one  a  glimmer 
ing  spark. 

The  village  lights  seem  clustering  fireflies 
Lost  in  the  dark. 

O'erhead  in  fields  vast  as  eternity, 

Through  the  calm  night  celestial  beacons 
glow. 

Speak,  brooding  Ocean;  their  bright  mystery 
Do  you  not  know? 

Are  they  the  lights  of  many  a  heavenly  town 
Shining  upon  us   through   the   streets   of 

glass; 
Or  do  they  mark  the  roads  where  up  and 

down 
The  spirits  pass? 


THE  WIFE 

The  day  was  fair,  the  wind  blew  steadily. 
We  raised  the  sails  and  headed  straight  to 

sea, 

Gay  fugitives  from  that  mad  prison  pen, 
The  City;  the  new  Moloch  to  whom  men 
Offer  themselves  a  living  sacrifice. 
We  had  escaped.     Sudden  before  our  eyes 
Unrolled  the  wind-tossed  carpet  of  the  seas, 
The  radiant  fields  of  heaven  shone.    At  ease, 
Sprawling  upon  the  deck,  we  watched  on  high 
The  lazy  clouds,  outstripped  as  we  sped  by; 
Laughed  as  the  spray  flew  over  us,  and  now 
Heard  the  waves  singing  round  our  eager 

prow. 

Like  drowsy  children,  careless  and  content, 
We  looked  but  questioned  not  what  all  this 

meant. 

Rousing  us  from  this  happy  lethargy, 
Our  artist  called  us  to  awake  and  see 
The  ocean  shadows  drifting  clouds  had  made, 
With  half  the  waves  in  light,   and  half  in 
shade. 


THE  WIFE 

His  pipe  in  hand,  he  praised  the  skill  of  one 
Whose  brush  could  catch  the  waters,  hold 

the  sun, 

And  fix  the  heavens  in  a  gilded  frame. 
Our  poet  spoke  of  one,  assured  of  fame, 
Whose  verse  swayed  with  the  rhythm  of  the 

tide 
And  foam-peaked  waves,  and  dipping  gulls. 

He  tried 

To  sing  a  ballad  he  had  lately  made. 
From   that   we   talked   of   music;   how   one 

played 

Until  it  seemed  Nature  herself  had  sent 
All  earthly  tones  to  his  small  instrument. 
At  length  we  felt  our  day  was  incomplete, 
Old  Adam  rose  within  us — we  must  eat. 

Hot  from  the  cabin,  eagerly  we  took 

The  feast  prepared  by  our  much-lauded  cook; 

Well  fed,  untroubled,  what  more  could  life 

give? 

"Brothers,"  said  one,  "tfcis  is  the  way  to  live, 
Feasting  on  chowder,  nature,  verse,  and  art." 
"Here,"  said  the  skipper,  "hand  me  up  that 

chart. 


THE  WIFE 

That  sky  looks  angry.    Luckily  we  planned 
To  sail  no  further;  now  we'll  make  for  land." 
We  found  upon  the  chart  our  little  bay 
And  all  the  reefs  that  barred  our  vessel's  way. 
The  wind  blew  sharply  as  we  went  about. 
"There's    nasty    weather    coming,     it's    no 
doubt." 

As  we  drew  near  the  harbor  a  small  boat 

Came  bounding  towards  us.  In  tarpaulin 
coat 

A  fisher,  all  alone,  stood  at  the  wheel. 

"Look,"  cried  our  skipper,  "how  would  you 
folks  feel 

To  be  there  sailing  five  miles  out  to  sea? 

And  that's  a  woman;  she's  the  kind  for  me. 

It's  do  or  die,  her  children  must  be  fed, 

And  she  must  find  the  food,  her  man  half- 
dead. 

In  a  rough  sea  like  this,  it  takes  a  lot 

Of  strength  to  pull  in  just  one  lobster  pot; 

And  then  to  hold  your  boat,  in  wind  and  rain. 

That's  the  best  woman  on  the  coast  of 
Maine." 

And  now  her  boat  shot  past  us,  and  we  all 

Raised  a  loud  cheer,  but  if  she  heard  our  call, 


THE  WIFE 

She  never  turned,  nor  waved  to  us  her  hand. 
Against  the  darkening  sky  we  saw  her  stand, 
Holding  her  course,  drenched  by  the  driving 

spray. 

We  watched  her  till  she  faded  far  away. 
Abashed  we  stood,  we  who  had  played  with 

life, 
Awed  by  the  sudden  glimpse  of  that  lone 

wife; 

Like  guilty  men  who  silently  confess, 
Stunned  by  the  thought  of  our  own  littleness. 


HOMESICK 

Shipwrecked  in  this  grimy  town,  the  worst 

luck  I  have  had; 
Soot  and  smoke  to  make  you  choke,  and  mills 

to  drive  you  mad, 
Noise  and  din,  and  filth  and  sin — but  I'm  a 

sailor  lad, 
And  tomorrow  I'll  go  sailing  out  to  sea. 

"How  are  you,  mate?"  says  I  to  one,  and 

stretches  out  my  hand. 
"Don't  talk  to  me,  I'm  late,"  says  he.     It's 

hard  to  understand 
How  people  find  the  time  to  breathe  in  this 

forsaken  land — 
But  tomorrow  I'll  go  sailing  out  to  sea. 

Here  the   children   always  cry,   the  women 
always  scold; 

A  week  in  town  has  made  me  feel  a  hundred 
years  grown  old, 

Another  week  would  have  me  buried  under 
neath  the  mould, 
So  tomorrow  I'll  go  sailing  out  to  sea. 

8 


HOMESICK 

Here  in  town  you  see  no  stars,  so  close  the 
housetops  meet; 

There  isn't  any  wind — just  dust  comes  blow 
ing  down  the  street; 

The  smells,  there's  hundreds  of  them,  they 

are  anything  but  sweet, 
Oh !  tomorrow  I'll  be  sailing  out  to  sea. 

"Live  here,"  says  one,  uin  all  our  mills  big 

wages  they  will  give." 
"Avast,"  says  I,  "I'd  rather  bail  the  ocean 

with  a  sieve; 
Don't  talk  to  me  of  living  when  you  don't 

know  how  to  live." 
So  tomorrow  I'll  be  sailing  out  to  sea. 

I'm  glad  I  never  married  for  there's  no  wife 

like  my  ship; 
Tomorrow  on  her  deck  again  I'll  feel  her  rise 

and  dip, 
The  clean,  cold  wind  against  my  cheek,  the 

salt  spray  on  my  lip, 
Oh!  tomorrow  I'll  be  sailing  out  to  sea. 


FRENCHMAN'S  BAY 

Sudden  and  swift  the  mountains  rise, 

Smiting  the  heavens  free; 
Close  at  their  heads  are  the  sun-swept  skies, 

And  close  at  their  feet — the  sea. 

For  the  fleet  waves  race  past  the  mountains' 

base 

To  the  calm  of  the  pine-fringed  bay; 
They  come  from  the  deeps  where  the  tempest 

sweeps 
Round  dim  isles  far  away. 

Now  the  waves  are  black  with  the  storm- 
wind's  track, 

They  are  green  as  a  mermaid's  eyes, 
When  faint  stars  shine  they  are  crimson  wine, 

They  are  wan  when  the  daylight  dies. 

On  the  rocks  they  moan  in  a  sullen  tone, 
Like  wolves  on  the  beach  they  leap, 

They  ripple  and  sigh  in  a  lullaby 
Charming  a  child  to  sleep. 

10 


FRENCHMAN'S  BAY 

i  In  the  loveless  day  when  the  skies  are  gray,l 

The  sea  is  a  widow  old; 
Beneath  the  moon,  she's  a  bride  of  June, 
Glowing  in  cloth  of  gold. 

But  the  peaks  are  unmoved  by  the  plundering 

storm, 

Unthrilled  by  the  moonlight's  lure. 
What  change  can  they  know,  what  passion's 

glow, 
Those  mountains  strong  and  sure? 

Safe  on  the  hill  you  may  rest  who  will, 
But  the  waves  weave  a  spell  for  me ; 

Where  the  tide  runs  high,  where  the  shrill 

gulls  cry, 
I  follow  the  restless  sea. 


1 1 


FRAGRANCE 

The  woodsman  loves  the  smell  of  pines, 

The  mower  in  the  sun 
Takes  pleasure  in  the  fragrant  grass 

When  the  long  swath  is  done. 

The  ploughman  strikes  a  precious  jar 

Of  ointment  for  his  toil 
When  all  his  furrowed  field  gives  forth 

The  clean  smell  of  the  soil. 

In  May  the  apple  orchards  stand 

Pale  priestesses  in  white; 
Each  tree  a  laden  censer  bears, 

Fit  for  a  queen's  delight. 

Over  the  doorway  of  the  house 

The  honeysuckle  clings. 
Its  fragrance  makes  the  little  room 

Fit  for  the  court  of  kings. 

But  sweeter  far  than  earth  or  grass, 

Than  flower  or  blossomed  tree, 
Are  the  odors  that  the  South  wind  brings 

From  the  gardens  of  the  sea. 

12 


FRAGRANCE 

They  tell  of  islands,  starry  skies, 
Of  waves  with  crests  of  snow, 

Of  leagues  of  shining  waters  where 
The  great  ships  come  and  go. 

Pleasant  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay, 
And  sweet  the  flowering  vine, 

But  the  odor  that  can  stir  the  heart 
Is  the  keen  scent  of  the  brine. 

Cassia  and  aloes,  nard  and  myrrh, 

Perfumes  of  Araby, 
I'd  give  them  all  for  the  winds  that  blow 

From  the  gardens  of  the  sea. 


WISHES 


Could  I,  with  Joshua  of  old, 

Command  the  restless  stars  at  will, 

Shout  to  the  sun  and  bid  it  hold, 
We  should  be  cruising  still. 

On  we  should  sail  from  reach  to  reach 
Nor  care  to  skirt  the  wooded  shore; 

Past  island  cliffs  and  sunny  beach, 
Then  out  to  sea  once  more. 

Through  warmer  oceans,  faring  south 
Where  the  green,  shining  islands  stand, 

We'd  sail  up  some  strange  river's  mouth 
And  anchor  near  the  land. 

There  birds  of  every  sunset-hue 
Chatter  and  dart  from  tree  to  tree. 

Content,  we'd  watch  the  long  day  through 
Nature's  gay  pageantry. 

The  call  of  trade,  the  factories  drown 
All  Nature's  voices;  here  the  din 

Of  this  drab,  cheerless,  selfish  town 
Deadens  the  song  within. 


WISHES 

Give  to  me,  then,  for  one  brief  day, 
The  power  to  hold  the  sun  at  will, 

On  seas  a  thousand  leagues  away 
We  shall  be  cruising  still. 


FOG 

All  morn  a  driving  rain  swept  down 
And  blurred  with  mist  the  fishing  town 

Skirting  the  wooded  bay, 
Till  the  meadow  grass  bent  with  its  silver 

load, 
New  brooks  dashed  over  the  sodden  road, 

And  the  tamarack  tops  turned  gray. 

At  noon  the  rain  ceased.     Then  there  came 
The  fog — smoke  of  a  sea  aflame, 

The  dead  earth's  shroud  of  white. 
It  hid  the  wharf  and  the  church  on  the  hill, 
It  covered  the  woods — and  the  birds  were 
still, 

It  blotted  the  harbor  light. 

And  all  night  long  with  a  mournful  clang 
The  lighthouse  bell  in  warning  rang 

Lest  the  reef  might  seize  a  prey. 
And  faintly,  far  through  the  mist  inborne, 
Some  laboring  vessel's  distant  horn 

Sounded,  then  died  away. 

16 


FOG 

By  the  harbor's  edge,  in  that  gray  house  there, 
An  old  man  sits  all  night  in  his  chair, 

For  the  mists  on  his  mind  have  lain. 
He  stirs  at  the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell, 
His  lips  move — something  he  strives  to  tell, 

Then  his  head  drops  down  again. 

Morn,  and  a  warm  earth  born  anew; 
All  that  the  mists  had  wrapped  from  view 

Glows  in  revealing  light. 
There  are  jewels  hung  from  the  pine  tree's 

spill, 
All  glittering  white  is  the  church  on  the  hill, 

But  the  old  man  sits  in  night. 

"Death,    churl    death,"    men    have    vainly 

prayed, 
"Let  thy  coming  be  long  delayed." 

Mine  is  a  better  strain: 

"Call  me  to  rest  when  the  heaven  shines  blue, 
Let  me  not  live  when  my  life  is  through 

And  the  mists  have  shrouded  the  brain." 


THE  HERITAGE 

From  the  drear  North,  a  cold  and  cheerless 
land, 

Our  fathers  sprang. 

They  drove  no  flocks  to  crop  the  tender  grass, 
They  gazed  on  lonely  moor,  on  deep  morass, 
And  wintry  skies  whence,  to  their  viking  band, 

The  raven  sang. 

O'er  flowerless  lands  the  storm-tossed  forests 

threw 

A  gloomy  pall. 

On  treacherous  seas  they  raised  their  plunder 
ing  sail, 
Fought  with  the  waves,  outrode  the  Northern 

gale, 

High  overhead  the  startled  sea  gulls  flew 
With  clamoring  call. 

They  heard  the  breakers  smite  the  quivering 

shore 

With  thunder  roll. 
No  songs  they  sang  to  greet  the  Harvest 

wain 
In  happy  fields  rich  with  the  ripened  grain; 

18 


THE  HERITAGE 

Stern  was  their  world,  a  sorrow  stern  they 

bore 
Deep  in  the  soul. 

Through  countless  years,  faint  memories  of 

their  times 
Will  oft  awake. 
From  waves  and  shifting  sands,  their  resting 

place, 
The  Norsemen  send  us,   offspring  of  their 

race, 
Dimly    remembered    dreams,    like    minster 

chimes 
Heard  o'er  a  lake. 

So  come  dark  moments,  when  in  this  green 

land 

Norsemen  are  we; 

And  crave  the  sorrow  of  the  leafless  wood, 
Or  seek  some  barren  dune's  gray  solitude 
To  hear  bleak  winds  go  moaning  down  the 

sand, 
By  the  wild  sea. 


SEA  DREAMS 

Sailor,  sailor,  why  must  you  go 

Out  past  the  rim  of  the  sky? 
Charts  have  not  told  the  quaint  lands  I  behold 

From  this  gray  rock  where  I  lie. 

Hunter,  hunter,  what  do  you  seek 

Climbing  the  mountain  side? 
No  game  is  there  like  the  wild  thoughts  I 
snare 

Watching  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

Fisherman,  fisherman,  drag  in  your  nets; 

Come  from  the  perilous  seas. 
My  dream  nets  hold  strange  fish,  blue  and 
gold, 

Here  where  I  lie  at  ease. 

Sailor  and  fisherman  drift  down  the  sky, 
Woods  hide  the  hunter  from  me; 

So  fisherman,  hunter,  and  sailor  am  I, 
Playing  with  dreams  by  the  sea. 


20 


^ 

THE  STORM 

The  sun  sank  in  a  sheer  abyss  of  cloud, 

While  long  and  loud, 
A  prelude  to  the  fight,  the  ocean  roared. 

Beneath  a  pall  of  black 

The  stealthy  storm  lay  plotting  its  at 
tack, 

Then  on  the   earth  its   sudden  wrath   out 
poured. 

After  the  driving  rain 

Fierce  rushed  the  hurricane. 
From  roof-tree  to  the  sill 
The  cottage  trembled  when  with  desperate 

shout 

And  brutal  challenge,  putting  hope  to  rout, 
The  pitiless  wind  charged  wildly  up  the  hill. 

The  trees  that  dared  resist  uprooted  lay 

A  helpless  prey; 
And  one,  the  last  of  all  his  kingly  race, 

A  tall,  broad-bodied  oak, 

Fell  shattered  to  the  heart.    The  light 
ning's  stroke 

21 


THE  STORM 

Through  a  cleft  side  drove  deep  its  deadly 

trace. 

With  the  next  peal  there  came 
A  sudden  burst  of  flame : 
The  barn,  in  blazing  light, 
Crashed  to  the  earth,  then  sputtered  in  the 

dark, 

A  smouldering  ruin,  an  abandoned  mark, 
Shattered  by  the  artillery  of  night. 

Within  the  home  the  children  called  in  fear, 

They  could  not  hear 

The  words  of  comfort  that  the  mother  spoke. 
Waked  from  a  faery  dream 
They  shook  in  terror  at  each  startling 

gleam, 

Stunned  by  the  bolt  that  felled  their  dear- 
loved  oak. 

At  this  dark,  evil  hour 
Her  voice  lost  its  calm  power 
To  drive  night-fears  away, 
And  hush  the  sobs,  for  still  she  must  repeat 
"Sleep,  rest  and  sleep,  then  soon  your  little 

feet 

Will  dance  with  joy  in  the  warm,  peaceful 
day." 

22 


THE  STORM 

The  winds  swept  past;  the  rain  ceased;  with 
the  morn 

The  earth,  new-born, 
Glittered  and  sparkled.     In  a  dazzling  green 

Shone  every  hill  and  tree, 

And  this  day's  miracle,  far  out  at  sea 
Lay  wooded  islands  we  had  never  seen. 

White  cliffs,  blue  waves  requite 

The  terrors  of  the  night. 
Forgotten,  with  the  day, 
The    crashing   thunder    and   the   lightning's 

glare. 

The  birds  are  singing;  happy  children  there 
Upon  the  fallen  tree,  shout  as  they  play. 


ROMANCE 

A  wild  rose  grew  by  the  ocean's  edge, 
At  the  fringe  of  a  grove  of  pine. 

She  saw  with  joy  from  her  sheltered  ledge 
The  vast  sea  glimmer  and  shine. 

She  longed  to  float  from  her  rocky  bed 

To  an  isle  in  a  southern  sea 
For  there  she  would  glow  a  deeper  red, 

More  sweet  would  her  fragrance  be. 

She  watched  the  white  gulls  swoop  and  poise, 
The  gray  sails  fade  from  sight. 

"Alas!"  she  said,  umust  I  lose  their  joys, 
The  wanderer's  delight?" 

But  when  eager  winds  sang  loudly  uCome," 
She  trembled  and  paled  with  fear. 

Gladly  she  clung  to  her  rocky  home 
With  the  sheltering  balsam  near. 

One  day,  as  she  bent  to  the  rocks  below, 

A  sea  weed  glistening  there 
Said  "Rose,  poor  rose,  you  can  never  know 

Love's  power — yet  you  are  fair. 

24 


ROMANCE 

"Myself  I  gave  to  the  swiftest  wave 

Thrilled  with  life's  ecstasy. 
He  woo'd  me  and  snatched  me  from  ocean 
cave 

To  carry  me  over  the  sea 

"Where  the  waves  are  warm  and  the  sun  is 
bright ; 

Far  south,  in  some  coral  bay, 
He  will  rock  me  and  sing  me  to  sleep  at  night, 

And  dance  with  me  all  through  the  day. 

"He  has  left  me  here  till  he  finds  the  track 
That  leads  where  the  south  winds  dwell. 

When  the  tide  rolls  in,  he'll  come  leaping  back 
And  then,  little  rose,  farewell." 

At  night,  when  the  wild  rose  bowed  her  head, 

She  longed  for  a  lover,  too. 
She  would  give  herself  gladly  to  him,  she  said, 

Whenever  he  came  to  woo. 

She  bent  at  morning  to  praise  her  friend 
Who  greatly  had  dared  love's  deed; 

But  beyond  the  rocks  where  the  flood  tides 

end 
Lay  only  a  withered  weed. 

25 


RECOMPENSE 

Where  the  green  fir-tips  meet  the  sapphire 
sky, 

A  gull,  cloud-white, 
Careless  of  earth,  floats  insolently  by 

In  the  warm  light. 

Still,  imperturbable,  it  holds  a  course 

To  lands  unknown, 

And  scornful  of  the  south  wind's  gathering 
force 

It  sails  alone, 

Seeing  unmoved  the  noon's  exultant  glow, 

The  evening's  grief, 
The  wind-swept  waves  that  crumble  into  snow 

Upon  the  reef. 

The  ships  becalmed  or  scudding  for  the  shore 

In  wind  and  rain, 
Alluring  isles — all  these  it  passes  o'er 

In  calm  disdain. 

26 


RECOMPENSE 

Deep  in  the  woods,  the  sea  left  far  behind, 

I  listen  long, 
Searching  in  ambush,  yet  in  vain,  to  find 

Who  sings  that  song. 

I  know  those  notes  pure  as  the  brooks  that 
gush 

Down  Alpine  vale; 
Enchantress  of  the  woods,  the  hermit-thrush, 

Our  nightingale. 

Its  world  a  forest  bough;  here  in  the  shade 

It  sings  unseen 
The  magic  songs  a  yearning  lover  made 

To  charm  a  queen. 

The  ocean-wandering  gull  from  all  his  quest 

Can  nothing  bring. 

You  have  the  world  within  your  throbbing 
breast, 

For  you  can  sing. 


27 


DESPAIR 

As  I  came  down  the  hillside 

To  put  to  sea, 
I  heard  a  girl  a-singing — 

But  not  for  me. 

As  we  sailed  past  the  village, 

By  that  last  pine 
A  girl  stood  waving  farewells — 

And  none  were  mine. 

She  stood  there  long  a-watching 

Our  vessel's  track. 
But  little  is  she  hoping 

That  I  come  back. 

My  mates  are  singing,  whistling, 

Half-dead  I  feel. 
I'm  like  a  boat  a-drifting 

With  broken  wheel. 

They  hope  for  lucky  fishing 

And  some  big  haul. 
I  once  had  luck  past  wishing — 

I've  lost  it  all. 

28 


ADVENTURE 

I 

I  loved  my  garden ;  in  its  cloistered  plot 

Blossomed  the  earliest  daffodils  of  Spring. 
Hiding  gray  walls  the  roses  climbed;  each 

spot- 
Breathed  blessing;  tender  violets  languish 
ing 

Scattered  faint  incense.     Honeysuckle  sweet 
And    fragrant    grass — soft    rest    for    tired 

feet- 
Enticed  the  care-worn  soul.    All  that  birds 

sing 
I  knew,  and  with  each  note  my  heart  would 

reach 
A  tranquil  joy  beyond  our  mortal  speech. 

One  morn,  across  the  distant,  sheltering  hill, 
Swift  from  the  sea  the  eastern  wind  blew 

strong. 
The  blackbird's  note  was  hushed;  as  all  grew 

still 

I    heard    far    off    that    ancient,    charmed 
song — 

29 


ADVENTURE 

The  ocean's  call.     The  flowers  I  loved  so 

well 
Trembled    and    died.       Half    freed    from 

drowsy  spell 

Of  garden  glamourie,  I  lingered  long, 
Then   opened   wide   the   gate    and   out   did 

pass — 
The  red  rose  strewed  its  petals  down  the 

grass. 

Through  the  rich  meadows,  past  the  moors 

I  went. 
(The  song  of  birds  came  faintly  down  the 

hill) 

Sweeter  than  roses  was  the  waves'  keen  scent, 

I  heard  the  wheeling  sea  gulls  calling  shrill. 

With  bruised  hands  I  clambered  down  a  ledge 

And  reached — no  resting  place — the  ocean's 

edge. 
Dim    dreams    came    to    my   heart,    brave 

thoughts  that  thrill. 

There  lay  a  boat,  for  this  day  was  I  made, 
Push  out !  and  o'er  the  hill  the  roses  fade. 


I  cannot  tell  where  lies  my  land, 
I  have  no  guiding  star,  no  chart; 

Clutching  the  tiller,  firm  I  stand 

And  fight  the  waves  with  unmoved  heart. 

Tossed  by  the  stealthy  waves,  alone 

On    trackless    tides    where    strange    stars 

shine, 
I  seek  far  regions,  vast,  unknown, 

(Hark!    how   the   gale    sweeps    o'er   the 
brine!) 

Rest — 'twas  the  empty  gift  of  Death. 

The  Gods  themselves  that  man  deride 
Who  waits  their  word  with  trembling  breath, 

His  path  untrod  and  life  untried. 

'Tis  cold.    Far  off  in  cloistered  plot 
The  roses  bloom,  the  violets  wait. 

Breakers ! — I  would  not  change  my  lot, 
Nor  turn  dismayed  from  unknown  Fate. 


FLOWERS 

Her  garden  was  her  pleasure  and  her  care; 
Morning  and  evening  one  could  find  her  there 
Working  and  wondering.  Every  scent  and 

hue 
Filled  her  with  joy,  with  beauty  pierced  her 

through, 

For  as  her  flowers  opened  to  the  sun 
Each  seemed  a  radiant  world  her  soul  had 

won. 

This  paradise  of  perfume  her  own  hand 
Had  made,  this  glowing  tapestry  she  planned. 
From  walls  that  kept  marauding  winds  shut 

out 
A  fountain  splashed.     A  brook  wound  slow 

about 
Fields  of  spiced  candytuft,  hedged  with  trim 

box, 
Dark  blue  verbenas,  larkspurs,   snow-white 

phlox, 

And  beds  of  heliotrope  that  in  the  night 
Offered  rare  incense  for  the  stars'  delight. 
Robin  and  catbird  sought  her  iris  pool, 
Fluttered  and  bathed  them  in  its  shallows 

cool, 

32 


\  FLOWERS 

Then  poised  one  happy  moment  on  its  banks 
To  offer  to  the  stream  their  lyric  thanks. 
Here  peace  grew  as  a  flower,  yet  deep  at 

heart 

She  felt  a  longing;  she  was  not  a  part 
Of  all  this  flower  world.    She  dwelt  exiled 
From    hope,    from    love,    from    life.      She 
craved — a  child. 

One  day  she  left  her  garden.    In  the  heat 
And  dizzy  turmoil  of  a  city  street, 
Startled  she  heard  a  child's  heart-broken  cry, 
And    stood   transfixed;    the    surging    crowd 

swept  by. 

Within  the  gutter  stood — a  sight  of  shame — 
Two  wretched  creatures.    One  could  scarcely 

name 

Them  man  and  woman;  sin  and  black  dis 
grace 

Told  a  grim  story  in  each  brutal  face. 
The  woman  pushed  a  box  that  served  as  cart, 
With  broken  wheels  that  sprawled  and  fell 

apart. 

In  it,  a  child.    No  dirt,  no  rags  could  hide 
Its  radiant  beauty;  Nature  glorified 

33 


FLOWERS 

Upon  that  head  her  diadem  had  set — 
The  man  clutched  at  a  half-smoked  cigarette, 
Whereat  the  child  leaped,   laughing,   in  its 

place. 

The  woman  cursed  and  smote  it  in  the  face, 
Then,   as  it  sobbed,  jeered  at  its  pain  and 

fright. 
The  crowd  swept  on  and  bore  them  from  her 

sight. 

At  evening  slow  she  walked  her  garden  round 
Seeking   for  peace — no   peace,   no   rest   she 

found. 

The  child  had  passed  forever  from  her  life 
And  yet  its  cry  still  pierced  her  as  a  knife. 
That  was  the  plant,  if  God  had  heard  her 

prayer, 
She  would  have  watched  unfolding  in  soft 

air; 
Or  else  her  tree;  she  would  have  loved  it 

when 

It  offered  boughs  for  birds  and  fruit  for  men. 
Or  else  a  pine,  set  on  a  ledge  to  be 
A  welcome  guide  for  fishing  fleets  at  sea; 
An  oak,  the  traveler's  shade — God  only  knew 
With  that  life  given  her,  what  she  might  do. 

34 


FLOWERS 

A  finch  flashed  by  her,  one  she  loved  of  old; 
She  heard  no  song,  she  saw  no  breast  of  gold. 
She  tried  to  bind  the  roses  to  the  wall; 
Her  hands  dropped  down — the  mockery  of 

it  all! 

Within  the  shadow  of  a  tree  she  crept, 
And  by  her  flowers,  in  agony  she  wept. 


35 


THE  DAWN 

He  shook  his  head  as  he  turned  away — 
"Is  it  life  or  death?"     "We  shall  know  by 
day." 

Out  from  the  wards  where  the  sick  folk  lie, 
Out  neath  the  black  and  bitter  sky, 
Past  one  o'clock  and  the  wind  is  chill, 
The  snow-clad  streets  are  ghostly  still; 
No  friendly  noise,  no  cheering  light, 
So  calm  the  city  sleeps  tonight, 
I  think  its  soul  has  taken  flight. 

Back  to  the  empty  home — a  thrill, 

A  shudder  at  its  darkened  sill, 

For  the  clock  chimes  as  on  that  morn, 

That  happy  day  when  she  was  born. 

And  now,  inexorably  slow, 

To  life  or  death  the  hours  go. 

Time's    wings    are    clipped;    he    scarce    can 

creep. 

Tonight  no  drug  could  bring  you  sleep ; 
Watch  at  the  window  for  the  day; 
'Tis  all  that's  left — to  watch  and  pray. 

36 


THE  DAWN 

But  I  think  the  prayer  of  an  anguished  heart 
Must  pierce  that  bleak  sky  like  a  dart, 
And  tear  that  pall  of  clouds  apart. 

The  poplars,  edging  the  frozen  lawn, 
Shudder  and  whisper:  "Wait  till  dawn." 

Two  spirits  stand  beside  her  bed 

Softly  stroking  her  curly  head. 

Death    whispers,    "Come" — Life    whispers, 

"Stay." 

Child,  little  child,  go  not  away. 
Life     pleads,     "Remember" — and     Death, 

"Forget." 

Little  child,  little  child,  go  not  yet. 
By  all  your  mother's  love  and  pain, 
Child  of  our  heart,  child  of  our  brain, 
Stay  with  us ;  go  not  till  you  see 

The  Fairyland  that  life  can  be. 

****** 

The  poplars,  edging  the  frozen  lawn, 
Are  dancing  and  singing.     "Thank  God — 
the  Dawn!" 


37 


PRAYER 

She  cannot  tell  my  name 

Nor  whence  I  came. 

But  when  at  night  she  hears  my  voice  below 

My  little  girl  runs  quickly  down  the  hall, 

Peers  through  the  stair  bars,  laughing  at  my 

call, 

Yet  who  or  what  I  am  she  does  not  know. 
Nor  can  she  understand 
All  that  for  her  I've  planned; 
That  the  day's  work  without  her  would  be 

vain, 
Or    how   her    laughter    clears   the    troubled 

brain; 
That  her  small  hands,  soft  as  the  white  rose 

leaf, 

Can  ward  off  grief. 

Then  as  she  runs  to  me,  each  faltering  word 
Seems  the  divinest  music  I  have  heard. 
She  does  not  know  the  father's  love  I  feel, 
That  were  she  gone,  her  death  would  pierce 

the  heart  like  steel. 

O  God,  thy  ways  are  dark. 
Man  cannot  mark 

38 


PRAYER 

Thy  path  upon  the  mountain  or  the  sea. 
We  cannot  read  thy  will  or  know  thy  mind, 
Baffled  by  one   small  world  thou  hast  de 
signed, 

Awed  by  the  grandeur  of  infinity. 
He  who  can  trace 
The  marching  stars  through  space, 
Measure  the  oceans,  lift  the  mountains  up, 
Scatter  the  perfume  in  the  lily's  cup, 
Planning  for  aeons,  measuring  each  year, 
Will  this  God  hear? 
Yes;  if  we  call  to  Him  in  joy,  dismay, 
(For  that  is  prayer)  He  cannot  turn  away, 
A  Father  dwelling  with  us,  not  apart. 
When  my  child's  call  I  hear,  I  catch  her  to 
my  heart. 


39 


POPLARS 

The  poplar  is  a  lonely  tree. 

It  has  no  branches  spreading  wide 

Where  birds  may  sing  or  squirrels  hide. 

It  throws  no  shadows  on  the  grass 

Tempting  the  wayfarers  who  pass 

To  stop  and  sit  there  quietly. 

The  poplar  sees  each  neighbour  tree 
Loved  by  the  birds.    The  oriole 
Swings  from  the  elm  its  home ;  the  bole 
Of  that  rough  oak,  above,  around, 
Hears  the  woodpecker's  rapid  sound 
As  on  he  works  industriously. 

The  poplar  is  a  slender  tree. 

It  has  no  boughs  where  children  try 

To  climb  far  off  into  the  sky. 

To  hold  a  swing  it's  far  too  weak, 

Too  small  it  is  for  hide-and-seek. 

Friendless,  forsaken  it  must  be. 

The  poplar  is  a  restless  tree. 

At  every  breeze  its  branches  bend 

And  signal  to   the   child,   "Come,    friend." 

40 


POPLARS 

Its  leaves  forever  whispering 

To  thrush  and  robin,  "Stay  and  sing." 

They  pass.     It  quivers  plaintively. 

Poplars  are  lonely.    They  must  grow 
Close  to  each  other  in  a  row. 


A  PORTRAIT 

Her  love  is  like  the  peaceful  summer  sky 
Where     winds     are     shepherding     their 

straggling  sheep; 
Or  like  the  star-sown  heavens,   serene   and 

high, 
Radiant  and  so  unfathomably  deep. 

Her  life  has  all  the  joy  of  dawn;  the  light, 
The  glowing  ardour  of  the  burning  noon; 

The  comforting  tranquillity  of  night, 

The  silent  promise  of  the  crescent  moon. 

Her  love  is  like  the  untrammelled  heaven, 

that  free 
Yet  bends  with  richest  blessing  o'er  the 

land. 

God  alone  knows  what  such  a  love  can  be; 
He  made  the  heavens,  and  He  can  under 
stand. 


THE  SILENCE 

Down  the  gray  crags  in  the  vale  below 
Wound  the  river,  a  gossamer  thread. 

Our  thoughts  were  as  deep  as  the  rocky  steep, 
But  never  a  word  we  said. 

On  crimson  clouds  we  could  faintly  trace 

The  path  of  the  homing  bird; 
Our  hopes  soared  high  as  the  sun-flushed  sky, 

Yet  we  whispered  never  a  word. 

Then  soul  met  soul;  no  speech  we  sought 
For  the  noblest  words  seemed  vain. 

The  earth  and  the  sky  must  speak  the  thought 
When  heart  calls  to  heart  again. 

No  speech  could  declare  the  soul  laid  bare 

In  a  vision  of  all  life  meant. 
But   the   words   that  the   silence   whispered 
there 

We  shall  hear  till  our  life  be  spent. 


43 


TO  MEMORY 

Pale  wistful  dreamer,  brooding  o'er  the  past, 
Listening  to  dying  music  far  away, 

Rest  in  your  twilight  home  where  burn  the 

last 
Faint,  smouldering  fires  of  day. 

I  never  ask  to  hear  your  footstep  light 
Upon  the  door-sill  of  my  peaceful  hall, 

Nor  listen  at  my  window  in  the  night 
For  your  soft  murmuring  call. 

I  know  your  message;  I  have  found  earth 

sweet 
As  new-mown  meadows  or  the  balsam's 

breath; 
Life,    rich    with    brave    friends;    gay,    with 

children's  feet — 
To  dream  on  this  is  death. 

For  as  this  earth  whirls  ceaselessly  through 

space 

So  man,  earth's  child,  must  never  rest;  and 
when 

44 


To  MEMORY 

The  past  allures,  must  know  his  fairest  place 
Shines  just  beyond  his  ken. 

At  night  when  all  the  guests  have,  supped  and 
gone, 

The  fire  they  circled  on  the  hearth  has  died, 
I  shall  not  stoop  o'er  embers.  With  the  dawn 

Scatter  the  ashes  wide ! 


45 


WAR 

(On  the  German  invasion  of  Belgium) 

They  who  take  the  sword, 

To  slay  for  lust  of  gain, 
With  fleets  in  air,  with  ships  at  sea, 
Vast  armies,  Death's  artillery, 
Can  they  break  the  might  of  the  Lord's  de 
cree? 

With  the  sword  they  shall  be  slain. 

They  who  take  the  sword, 

In  swords  have  put  their  trust. 
Their  foes  shall  be  the  unnumbered  dead, 
(No  sentry  hears  that  army's  tread) 
Who  shall  dash  the  crown  from  the  victor's 

head, 
And  trample  it  in  the  dust. 

They  who  take  the  sword, 

A  child  shall  their  end  foretell; 
One  dying  mother's  faintest  sigh, 
One  girl's  imploring,  piercing  cry, 
Shall  ring  like  a  blast  in  their  souls  till  they 

die, 
Shall  ring  through  their  souls  in  hell. 


WAR 

They  who  take  the  sword, 

What  gain  is  victory? 
Though    blood-drenched    flags    in    triumph 

float, 

Their  new-won  lands  are  a  burial  moat; 
Better,  with  millstone  'round  the  throat, 

Were  they  flung  to  the  pitiless  sea. 

They  who  take  the  sword, 

For  lust,  and  hate,  and  gain, 
The  strength  of  the  hills  'gainst  them  is  set, 
The  sword  of  the  spirit  is  sharper  yet, — 
For  God  hath  said — shall  God  forget? — 

With  the  sword  they  shall  be  slain. 

August  3,  1914 


47 


TO  AN  OXFORD  FRIEND  KILLED 
IN  ACTION 

(After  reading  a  poem  by  W.  M.  Letts) 

I  saw  you  last  beside  the  stream 
That  flows  near  Oxford  town. 

We  moored  the  punt  and  on  the  bank 
At  ease  we  flung  us  down, 

And  talked  until  the  twilight  shades 

Turned  the  green  meadows  brown. 

Pleasant  the  bells,  that  afternoon, 
Sounding  from  distant  spires; 

Pleasant  the  notes  of  larks  unseen, 
As  songs  of  heavenly  choirs; 

Pleasant  to  talk  of  all  life  brings 
And  what  the  heart  desires. 

You  left  the  meadows  for  that  field 
Where  men  by  Death  are  tried. 

Dauntless  your  hopes,  your  life  you  threw 
Down  in  the  battle's  tide; 

And  now  you  live  with  all  brave  souls 
Who  fought  the  fight  and  died. 

48 


To  AN  OXFORD  FRIEND 

The  pleasant  fields  near  Oxford  town 

Lie  in  a  deeper  shade, 
I  think  of  all  her  splendid  youths 

Who  met  Death,  unafraid. 
(God  help  a  land  that  idly  dreams, 

Or  counts  her  gain  in  trade.) 

October,  1915 


49 


PAUL 

Hotel  St.  Sulpice — you'll  not  know 
The  place;  it's  small.    Ten  years  ago 
Paul,  my  stout  gargon,  broad  of  chest, 
Is  on  his  knees  in  feverish  zest 
To  polish  well  my  bed-room  floor, 
When  sudden,  through  the  tight-closed  door, 
There  comes  a  rasping,  strident  call. 
It  louder  grows:    "Que  fais-tu,  Paul?" 
"Courage,"  I  say,  "n'aie  pas  de  peur! 
La  Patronne — you're  afraid  of  her?" 
"Mais  oui,  mais  oui."     She  calls  again. 
He  runs.     What  cowards  are  we  men! 

To-day,  a  letter  from  a  trench; 
The  writing's  bad — and  worse,  the  French. 
"Monsieur,  I  write  to  let  you  know 
How  Paul  was  shot  three  days  ago. 
How  brave  he  was!     It  came  this  way: 
In  Neman's  land  four  Frenchmen  lay 
Wounded  and  groaning  in  their  pain; 
We  thought  to  bring  them  in  again. 
We  sent  out  four  brancardiers 

50 


PAUL 

And  the  Boches  shot  them.    There  they  lay, 

Eight  groaning  now  (what  could  we  do?)  : 

'Mais  vous,  nos  freres,  Ah!  tuez  nous/ 

And  Paul,  'twas  more  than  he  could  bear, 

Crawled  in  the  dark  to  get  them  there. 

He  knew  'twas  death,  but  he  would  try. 

He  kissed  me  when  he  said  good-bye. 

He  raised  one  man,  for  he  was  strong, 

And  crawling  carried  him  along 

When  pouf !  a  sudden  blaze  of  light, 

A  rocket  makes  a  day  of  night, 

But  Paul  was  almost  home;  he  reeled, 

Covering  his  blesse  like  a  shield. 

'Another  step,  he's  safe,'  I  said — 

He  fell  within  our  trenches — dead. 

You're  too  far  off  to  understand 

Ces  Boches ;  we  have  them  close  at  hand. 

And  so  he's  gone,  it  had  to  be, 

But  then,  he  died  pour  la  Patrie." 

Hotel  St.  Sulpice,  there  once  more 

I  see  him  polishing  my  floor; 

I  hear  an  angry  voice  repeat: 

"Que  fais-tu,  Paul?    Viens,  done,  vite!" 

He  shakes  his  head,  he  looks  dismayed; 

I  jeer  at  him,  "What,  Paul,  afraid? 


PAUL 

Don't  think  you're  going  to  be  shot." 
uMais  pourquoi  pas?  quelle  femme!  quelle 
boite!" 


THE  BIRD 

Once   when    a    child,    he    found   within   the 

neighbouring  wood 
A  wounded  dove  and  bore  it  home  with 

streaming  eyes. 
That  birds  he  loved  could  die,  he  had  not 

understood, 

And  half  his  words  told  grief,  and  half  a 
strange  surprise. 

He  nursed  the  bird  in  vain;  he  woke  to  find 

it  dead, 
We  could  not  still  his  grief;  but  when  his 

tears  were  spent 

He  dug  its  little  grave  within  the  roses'  bed, 
And  with  some  treasured  stones,  built  a 
quaint  monument. 

A  man,  he  loathed  the  war,  but  heard  his 

country's  call. 

Scorning  to  hide  behind  the  lives  of  braver 
friends, 

53 


THE  BIRD 

Straight  to  the  front  he  went;  forsook  the 

college  hall 

And   sought   the   perilous   post,    knowing 
where  such  task  ends. 

An  eagle,  high  he  soared  and  watching  far 

below 
The  hostile  armies  come,  signalled  what 

he  descried. 

Telling  his  men  to  ward  the   sudden,   des 
perate  blow, 

Then  in  the  clouds,  alone,  with  no  friend 
near,  he  died. 

For  him  no  childish  hands  will  dig  a  peaceful 

grave. 
What  does  the  freed  soul  care  where  the 

torn  body  lies? 
And  who  can  mourn  his  flight?    Clean,  loyal, 

tender,  brave, 

Swift  flew  his  soul  to  God,  far  in  the  happy 
skies. 


54 


CAVALIER  SONG 

1642 

If  this  be  my  last  hour  with  thee, 

For  none  may  Fate  control, 
Take  as  thine  own  a  heart  that's  free, 

And  the  worship  of  my  soul. 
For  where  the  trumpet-blasts  ring  out, 

And  men  rush  in  to  die, 
Amid  the  thickest  of  the  rout, 

My  sword  must  flash  on  high. 

I'll  serve  thee  as  my  king  and  lord, 

Thine  till  my  latest  breath, 
A  soldier's  word,  a  soldier's  sword, 

Are  thine,  my  dear,  till  death. 
Fate  has  no  power  to  decide 

Whether  I  live  or  fall, 
For  with  thee  Death  I  shall  deride, 

Without  thee,  I  lose  all. 


55 


A  MEMORY 

Over  the  balsams  a  golden  fleece 

Floats  in  the  evening  sky. 
Gently  the  night  wind  whispers  peace, 

Softly  the  branches  sigh. 

Joys  that  once  thrilled, 

Sorrows  that  stilled, 

Come  not  again  from  the  past. 

Hopes  that  once  led 

Are  forgotten  and  dead, 

Then  why  should  this  memory  last  ? 

Over  the  balsams  a  golden  fleece 

Fades  in  the  darkening  sky. 
A  wood-thrush  is  singing  of  rest  and  of  peace, 

Gently  the  night  winds  sigh. 


FAME 

At  length  he  laid  his  weary  pen  aside, 

Read  the  last  notes  of  his  great  symphony, 

And  loving  it  supremely,  said  with  pride 
"Surely  by  this  shall  men  remember  me." 

A  careless  song  that  sprang  from  out  his 

heart, 
That  told  the  joys  of  earth,  nor  thought 

for  fame, 

Alone  survives  his  laboured  works  of  art 
And  saves  for  us  an  else  forgotten  name. 


57 


A  PICTURE 

On  harpsichord,  Clarissa  plays 
The  melodies  of  by-gone  days. 
Forgotten  fugue,  a  solemn  tune, 
The  bars  of  stately  rigadoon. 
With  head  bent  down  to  scan  each  note, 
A  crimson  ribbon  round  her  throat, 
The  very  birds  to  sing  forget 
As  some  old-fashioned  minuet 
Clarissa  plays. 

King  George  long  since  has  passed  away, 
And  minuets  have  lived  their  day. 
Within  some  hidden  attic  nook 
Lies  in  the  dust  her  music  book. 
Gone  are  those  keys  her  fingers  pressed, 
Gone  with  the  roses  at  her  breast. 
Yet  still  unmindful  of  Time's  flight 
With  face  demure,  with  fingers  light, 
Clarissa  plays. 


THE  LECTURE 

College  de  France,  a  dingy  room; 

Bent  o'er  the  desk,  he  turns  his  pages 
Droning  a  lecture  in  the  gloom 

On  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Outside,  the  world  in  May  attire 

Would  make  the  dullest,  calmest  sages 

Throw  all  their  books  into  the  fire — 
Here's  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

First,  he  will  take  "a  rapid  view" ; 

He  ambles  on  in  lengthy  stages. 
I  might  be  walking  at  St.  Cloud, 

But — "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Tonight  the  woods  of  Fontainebleau — 
Another  theme  his  mind  engages, 

Another  point  we  all  must  know 
Of  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Out  in  the  street  I  hear  a  song; 

We  sit  mute,  captive  birds  in  cages. 
Our  life  is  short,  the  lecture's  long. 

O  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

59 


THE  LECTURE 

Without,  the  sky  with  stars  is  sown. 

Wisdom,  is  this  your  gift,  your  wages! 
Poor  man — his  world  a  stick,  a  stone, 

That's  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Long  years  of  study — this  is  all. 

Anger,  revolt  within  me  rages. 
"Le  cinquieme  point" — I  leave  the  hall. 

He  died,  lost  in  the  Middle  Ages. 


60 


THE  WOOD  ROAD 

All  day  they  are  hurrying  off  to  the  Fair; 
We'll  let  them  pass  by  us,  no  whit  do  we  care 
Though  they  beckon  and  shout  from  each 

gay  wagon-load; 
We'll  turn  from  the  highway  and  take  the 

wood  road. 

Each  hawker  is  calling  the  folks  to  his  ware, 
And  there's  pushing  and  crowding  all  over 

the  Fair 
As  if  some  great  river  its  banks  had  o'er- 

flowed; 
So  we'll  turn  from  the  highway  and  take  the 

wood  road. 

They  tell  me  there's  wonderful  sights  at  the 

Fair, 
But  there's  nothing  so  fine  as  your  lips  and 

your  hair; 
Your  eyes  they  shine  brighter  than  stars  ever 

glowed, 
So  we'll  turn  from  the  highway  and  take  the 

wood  road. 

61 


THE  WOOD  ROAD 

They're  spending  their  money  like  mad  at  the 

Fair, 
But  I'm  saving  mine  for  a  house  you  will 

share. 

'Twill  be  with  you  in  it  a  splendid  abode, 
So  we'll  turn  from  the  highway  and  take  the 

wood  road. 

'Tis  the  day  of  the  year,  they  all  say,  at  the 
Fair, 

But  the  day  of  our  wedding  you'll  see  the 
folks  stare 

For  you're  sweet  as  a  rose,  as  a  meadow  new- 
mowed; 

Then  we'll  turn  from  the  highway  and  take 
the  wood  road. 


62 


RAIN 

The  April  rain  falls  quietly, 

With  soft  caress  for  bush  and  tree, 

And  where  the  seeds  lie  buried  deep 

It  sinks,  to  rouse  them  from  their  sleep. 

It  whispers  to  the  earth  "Prepare 

The  fragrant  garlands  for  your  hair; 

Weave  your  bright  dress  of  green,  and  now 

Waken  the  leaves  on  every  bough. 

Call  back  the  birds  and  bid  them  sing 

In  their  ecstatic  carolling 

Of  meadow  blossoms,  waving  grain" — 

The  April  rain,  the  April  rain. 

Within  a  city  tenement 

There  lies  a  child;  her  strength  is  spent. 

The  sky,  the  very  walls,  the  street 

Shrivel  this  flower  with  cruel  heat. 

The  fever  burns;  she  moans  and  cries, 

'Twere  life  if  sleep  could  close  her  eyes. 

Sudden  the  blazing  sky  turns  gray, 

The  wind  comes  leaping  on  its  way. 

Within  the  room  steals  quietly 

The  cool  breath  of  the  woods  and  sea. 

63 


RAIN 

The  child  is  still;  she  sleeps  again — 
The  August  rain,  the  August  rain. 

The  trees,  mute  figures  of  despair, 
Stand  shivering  in  the  biting  air. 
Upon  the  oak  the  dead  leaves  cling, 
The  faded  tokens  of  the  Spring. 
On  these  gray  pensioners  bestow 
The  tender  mantle  of  the  snow. 
From  leaden  skies  the  rains  descend 
Sharp  as  the  treachery  of  a  friend. 
The  jewelled  ice  that  bends  each  tree 
Is  Death's  last,  bitter  mockery, 
A  sword  to  rend  the  boughs  in  twain- 
December  rain,  December  rain. 


SEPTEMBER 

Crickets  are  making 

The  merriest  din, 
All  the  fields  waking 

With  shrill  violin. 

Now  all  the  swallows 

Debate  when  to  go; 
In  valleys  and  hollows 

The  mists  are  like  snow. 

Dahlias  are  glowing 

In  purple  and  red 
Where  once  were  growing 

Pale  roses  instead. 

Piled  up  leaves  smoulder, 

All  hazy  the  noon, 
Nights  have  grown  colder, 

The  frost  will  come  soon. 

Early  lamps  burning, 
So  soon  the  night  falls, 

Leaves,  crimson  turning, 

Make  bright  the  stone  walls, 

65 


SEPTEMBER 

Summer  recalling 
At  turn  of  the  year, 

Fruit  will  be  falling, 
September  is  here. 


66 


APR  23    1934 


APft  30  1936 


1938 


m-8 


-«,'32 


bea  moodaj,  and  other 


64G5V3 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


